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Your friends avoid you, brutishly transform'd They hardly know you, or if one remains To wish you well, he wishes you in heaven.

John Armstrong

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John Armstrong
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Hope is the first thing to take some sort of action.
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Autumn ripens in the summer's ray.
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Time shakes the stable tyranny of thrones, And tottering empires rush by their own weight.
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Know, then, whatever cheerful and serene supports the mind supports the body too.
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Music exalts each joy, allays each grief, expels diseases, softens every pain.
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Good native Taste, tho' rude, is seldom wrong, Be it in music, painting, or in song: But this, as well as other faculties, Improves with age and ripens by degrees.
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If from thy secret bed Of luxury unbidden offspring rise, Let them be kindly welcom'd to the day.
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How sickly grow, How pale, the plants in those ill-fated vales That, circled round with the gigantic heap Of mountains, never felt, nor ever hope To feel, the genial vigor of the sun!
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The most beautiful form of compromise is forgiveness.
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Much had he read, Much more had he seen he studied from the life, And in th' original perus'd mankind.
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Ye who amid this feverish world would wear A body free of pain, of cares a mind, Fly the rank city, shun its turbid air Breathe not the chaos of eternal smoke And volatile corruption, from the dead, The dying, sickening, and the living world Exhal'd, to sully heaven's transparent dome With dim mortality.
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Tis not for mortals always to be blest.
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For wisest ends this universal Power Gave appetites, from whose quick impulse life Subsists, by which we only live, all life Insipid else, unactive, unenjoy'd. Hence to this peopled earth, which, that extinct, That flame for propagation, soon would roll A lifeless mass, and vainly cumber heaven.
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To please the fancy is no trifling good, Where health is studied for whatever moves The mind with calm delight, promotes the just And natural movements of th'harmonious frame.
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The blood, the fountain whence the spirits flow The generous stream that waters every part, And motion, vigor, and warm life conveys To every particle that moves or lives.
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What Nature bids is good, is wise, and faultless we obey.
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How happy he whose toil Has o'er his languid pow'rless limbs diffus'd A pleasing lassitude he not in vain Invokes the gentle Deity of dreams. His pow'rs the most voluptuously dissolve In soft repose on him the balmy dews Of Sleep with double nutriment descend.
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There are, while human miseries abound, A thousand ways to waste superfluous wealth, Without one fool or flatterer at your board, Without one hour of sickness or disgust.
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You can't help people that don't want to be helped.
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Our greatest good, and what we least can spare, Is hope: the last of all our evils, fear.
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